


you fold into me like a heart

by Molias



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, USB Blasting, mild robogore, no genitals are involved but sex is definitely happening, wireplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:47:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23367946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Molias/pseuds/Molias
Summary: Connor wants to get his chest fisted. Hank's up for it.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 12
Kudos: 164





	you fold into me like a heart

**Author's Note:**

> When I go too long without writing wireplay I get antsy and this fic was the result!

Connor gets in a mood sometimes, like all he wants is to be closer and closer to Hank. Curl up inside him and press every every part of himself against Hank until he can no longer mark a clear boundary between where one body stops and the other begins.

He can't crawl inside Hank, it's true (although he loves to satisfy that urge by thrusting his long, slender fingers deep inside him and watching the way Hank's thighs tense and his chest flushes as he gives in to the pleasure of it), but there is a way Hank can be inside him, deeper than he's been before. More completely. Connor can't get the thought out of his head, once the desire makes itself known.

He thinks about it for a long time before he brings it up. He doesn't want to scare Hank away; he knows that his internal systems might be unpleasant to look at. Human enough to set off the natural squeamishness even a seasoned police officer would feel when looking inside a loved one's chest cavity, inhuman enough to be alien and unfamiliar.

 _The worst of both worlds_ , Connor thinks, but the moment the thought comes to him he chases it away. He knows Hank doesn't see him that way.

The right moment never seems to come, until Connor returns home after a brief trip to Washington, to consult with Josh and Markus about some details of policy that are still being fine-tuned. He could consult with them remotely, of course, and there's very little he has to contribute that either of them haven't thought of already, but Connor learns very quickly that much of the official process of granting androids their rights is tied up in the _appearance_ of progress, and having multiple important figures in the same room, where cameras can capture them shaking hands with members of the Congressional Committee for Android Affairs, is an important narrative moment the government is eager to orchestrate.

He's in DC for a week, and the longer he's away from home, the more restless he feels.

Connor had not been created to crave touch. The desire for praise, for approval, had been threaded through all of his code in an attempt to keep him firmly on task, but no one had intended him to want physical affection. Once he experienced it, though, once Hank's broad hand settled over the back of his neck and pulled him close, something new and curious and _hungry_ had fluttered to life inside him, and he felt his priorities shift and overwrite themselves to reflect this new information. Wanting things was new to him, but he understood immediately that he wanted more.

 _If Hank had touched me like this earlier_ , Connor had thought, in the cold sunlight of early morning, _I would have deviated from that alone_.

Connor thinks of that moment, in the cab home from the Detroit airport, and his fingers twitch where they're folded up in his lap, itching with the need to touch Hank. He's nearly home, only minutes from the place where he can be surrounded by Hank's scent, hear his deep, rough voice booming from room to room, and oh, where he can touch him, feel the coarseness of his beard and his soft belly and heat of his mouth as it opens to his own.

He takes a deep breath. He doesn't need the oxygen, but the physical act is a reminder to slow his overactive processes down, to try and calm himself before he arrives so he doesn't try to tear off Hank's clothes the moment he walks through the door.

It's only slightly effective.

"Hey, you," Hank says with a smile, rising from the couch as Connor steps inside, and any calm Connor had managed to summon up in the cab dissipates the moment he hears Hank's voice. His hair's pulled back, the way he knows Connor likes, and he's wearing Connor's favorite shirt. (It's a little tight on him, but that's exactly why Connor likes it; if Hank insists on wearing clothes Connor would prefer to see him in something that leaves very little to the imagination.)

He's gorgeous.

Arousal floods Connor's systems; he had imagined several variations on how to properly greet Hank when he returned, to let him know how much he'd missed him without overwhelming him or seeming too needy, but these plans evaporate in the wake of the desire that surges through him.

He leans into Hank's open arms but presses forward enough to tilt him slightly off-balance, so that he staggers back for a half-step before his legs hit the front of the couch and he falls backward, with Connor tumbling neatly into his lap.

Before Hank can protest or give an indignant response, Connor has one hand on his chest and the other cupping his cheek. "I missed you," he murmurs, lips so close they're brushing against Hank's as he speaks, and when Hank's lips part to reply he can't help but close the whisper of space between them and kiss him.

 _Hank can talk later_ , Connor thinks. _I need to taste him now_. Kissing Hank always brings a rush of data, and after a week apart, a week in which he had to rely on his memories of the experience instead of indulging whenever he pleased, it's even more intoxicating than usual. The vast amount of sensory data Connor has stored under the subheading labeled **Hank/physical intimacy/oral contact/kissing** is precious to him, of course, but examining it in private can't compare to the pure, overwhelming desire and contentment he experiences when kissing Hank.

Every sensation rushes together: Hank's body heat mixes with the scent of his shampoo and the soft moan that rolls out of his throat when Connor nips his lower lip and it all crests over him like a wave.

Connor shudders and moans in Hank's lap. "Take me to bed," he says. "Please."

"Well, shit," Hank says, a little breathlessly. Connor can't help but be pleased by how quickly Hank's arousal surges to match his own. "You don't waste any time, huh, sweetheart?" He pats Connor's thigh. "It'll be easier to get to bed if you let me up, though. Or do you need me to carry you?"

It's tempting to carry Hank himself, Connor thinks; he knows he's strong enough to do so easily, and the thought of Hank kicking up a bit of a fuss (while secretly being turned on by it, as Connor knows he would be) is appealing. Still, there's something specific he craves, and if he lets himself get distracted carrying Hank to the bedroom and admiring his embarrassed arousal at being hauled around like a sack of potatoes, he might not get the chance to ask Hank for what he really wants.

So he slips off of Hank's lap and offers his hand, instead, although he does pull him up into another kiss.

Connor's unbuttoning his shirt the moment Hank closes the bedroom door behind them, but when he's only halfway done with the buttons Hank's large, warm hands cover his own, halting his progress.

"I'm not going anywhere," Hank says. "I'm here. You're here. We don't need to rush through anything, do we?"

"I'm impatient," Connor huffs. Hank's hands graze his stomach, hovering over the buttons there, and he imagines grabbing Hank's wrist and pushing _in_ as if his hand could pass through his chassis to tangle in the wires beneath without Connor having to say anything. Without asking, and explaining, and hoping it wouldn't be a step too far outside Hank's comfort zone.

"I can tell you are," Hank says. He brushes his nose, then his lips, against the shell of Connor's ear. "Don't think I didn't miss you too, baby," he rumbles. "You deserve a little special treatment to welcome you home, and I get the feeling you have something particular in mind." Hank slides the remaining buttons free, and Connor marvels, as he has many times before, at how delicate those thick fingers can be, when Hank has a mind to make them so. "Or do you just want me to keep peeling your clothes off and have my fun with you?" He kisses Connor's neck as he eases his shirt off his shoulders. "I can show you every way I wanted to touch you while you were gone."

It's tempting. Connor allows himself a moment to imagine Hank stripping him bare, rough hands handling him tenderly. He wants it, as he wants nearly every option Hank could offer him; the number of ways he wants to experience sex with Hank grows larger by the day.

"There is something," he says. "But it might be too much."

"Too much is good," Hank says. "Tell me."

"I want you inside me," Connor says, taking Hank's hand and placing it on his chest, over the ring of his thirium pump regulator. "Here."

It's gratifying, to be able to monitor the hitch in Hank's breathing and the slight dilation of his pupils when Connor says it. He's confused, Connor can see, but he's clearly aroused, as well, and Connor's own arousal can only increase when he gets a reaction like this out of Hank. He loves to feel wanted, desirable.

"Here?" Hank repeats. He brushes his fingers over the soft skin of Connor's chest. "Connor, I can't just reach inside you." It's a statement, but Hank looks at him like he's asked a question.

"You can," Connor murmurs. He lets his skin fade away, a patch of white spreading under the shape of Hank's hand and extending out to the seams of the panel covering his thoracic cavity. Connor pulls Hank down with him as he lies back on the bed; Hank kneels over him, almost reverently, and runs a fingertip along the panel's edge. "And it'll do something for you? It'll feel good?"

"It'll be you," Connor says. "Your hands." He lifts Hank's hand to his mouth and rests the first two fingers on his bottom lip. "Of course it'll feel good." He slides them into his mouth, moaning at how thick and heavy they feel against his tongue. If he concentrates, he knows he can sense every whorl of his fingerprint, but there's too much else he'd rather focus on right now.

Hank groans, low in his throat. "Show me what to do, then," he says. "Please."

Connor leads Hank's hand to a spot at the edge of his paneling and shows him where and how to apply gentle pressure; a moment later, there's a small hiss and Connor shudders as his insides are exposed to the open air.

He hasn't done this before.

He knows what his body looks like inside, of course, but not because he's opened himself of his own free will. Cyberlife technicians put their hands inside him, but he never felt pleasure from it. Not from them.

Hank is silent for what Connor's internal systems tell him is only twelve seconds but what feels like much longer. His eyes are wide and while his hand is still resting at the edge of his panel, still and uncertain, Connor sees his fingers flex and twitch, as if the impulse to touch is there.

He isn't disgusted by him, then. Not uncomfortable. Just unsure.

"You're gonna have to take the lead on this, boss," Hank says, finally breaking the silence. "I don't want to hurt you."

"Touch me," Connor says; he knows it's not enough, knows he has to give Hank more guidance than that, but he can't help but let those words slip out on their own. They're the core of what he wants. What he always wants, when he's near Hank.

"I got that part," Hank says with a dry chuckle. He leans down and kisses Connor while he slides his finger along the edge of the opening, not far enough in to touch any of the mass of wires and cables in his chest, but just enough to set off a flurry of alerts that swarm across Connor's vision to inform him of a foreign body inside him. "I need a little more to go on, though." Even as he says it, Hank dips his thumb down just enough to press gently against a bundle of wires running along the opening before disappearing deeper in Connor's body.

The effect is immediate.

Connor moans low in his throat and tugs Hank back for another kiss, licking messily into his mouth as he drinks in the sensation of it. "More," he pants against Hank's mouth, and Hank slides his thumb deeper, rubbing past the wires to brush against a thicker cable below them. "You can't--" he breaks off into a gasp of surprise when another finger nudges its way into his chest and Hank gently squeezes his thumb and finger around the collection of wires. "Oh!"

"What's that, baby?" Hank asks. He rolls the wires gently between his fingers. "I need to tell me what you want, I'm flying blind here."

Connor wants so much it's hard to name any one thing. "You can't hurt me," he manages to say, "if you're careful. I need to feel you deeper inside me."

"Fuck," Hank mutters. Connor notes an increase in his heartrate. "Do you know how it sounds when you say shit like that?"

Connor knows, of course, although at times he likes to pretend he doesn't, because he loves flustering Hank. He arches his back, pressing his chest up just enough that Hank's fingers slip a centimeter further inside.

"Insatiable," Hank says, as Connor stifles a whine. He grows bolder, skimming the uneven surface of Connor's wiring with his other fingers. The feel of five distinct points of pleasure is enough to make Connor squirm, even though Hank's barely touching him with three of them. "You want me so badly you need me in here, huh? This far inside you?"

"Farther," Connor moans. He wants, very badly, to grab Hank's hand and pull, to guide him deeper and deeper until his fingers wrap around his spine. He imagines Hank's arm buried in him up to the elbow, impossibly far, inextricably tangled with his nerves and sensors.

He only reaches up and caresses Hank's cheek, though. He wants to pull him in, yes, but more than that, he wants Hank to sink inside him willingly. Without being led.

"Please," he says. He's not above leading Hank with words.

Hank carefully slides each fingertip into a gap in Connor's wires and drags his hand through, as if he's combing thick, long hair with his fingers. Connor wails at the flood of feedback he's getting from so much wiring being stroked and manipulated at once. Hank's gentle enough, as he combs his fingers slowly through the twisting mass of wires, that nothing gets tugged out of place or unloosed from its coupling, but Connor feels the drag of his knuckles against every inch.

Hank's fingers meet resistance before too long, as wires bundle together and branch off elsewhere, so he slides them back the other direction, slipping back and forth in the few inches of space he's found. "How's that?" he asks, his voice low and rough. "Feel good?"

"Of course," Connor sighs. "I told you it would, didn't I?"

"Guess you did," Hank says. "But you said you wanted me deeper in you, didn't you?" He slips two fingers into a small gap between a narrow cable and a delicate bundle of thin wires and starts a slow, steady rhythm, sliding them deeper each time but pulling back out before Connor can focus on the feel of it.

It's maddening at first, intense enough to set off a dozen new warnings in Connor's vision but not as intense as he wants, nothing like what he's wanted for months now. He's kept this desire to himself for so long, and now that Hank finally has his hand inside him (but not as deep inside as he needs him, maddeningly close but not quite _enough_ ), the patience he's been exercising has all but vanished.

"Yes," Connor says, arching his back to meet Hank on his slow downthrust and forcing his hand deeper. "I need more."

"Jesus," Hank says, very quietly. His eyes are fixed on his hand where it's sliding into Connor's wiring, the widest part of his fist just barely stopping him from slipping the entire thing through the gap in the wires.

"You need more, huh?" Hank asks, almost casually, like Connor isn't asking for it as plainly as he can manage. He can't quite spell it out as clearly as he (or Hank) might want, but the way Hank keeps working his hand deeper, stretching to brush his fingertips against the layer of components underneath the surface wires, watching Connor's face for his reaction and curving his fingers to hit the most sensitive places, makes Connor think he's getting the picture.

Hank eases his hand out of the narrow space he'd thrust it into, and leans down to kiss Connor when he whines at the loss of contact. "Shh, I've got you," he murmurs against Connor's lips. It's hard to focus on anything when he's being flooded with data from his oral sensors and a multitude of internal ones as well. He puffs hot air into Hank's mouth, trying to vent excess heat without pulling away to compose himself.

"I'm counting on you to let me know if I go too far," Hank says, and as his hand inches closer to the center of Connor's chest, slowly and deliberately plucking at his surface wires along the way, Connor worries he won't last long enough to experience what's coming before succumbing to the overstimulation.

"Hank, I--I'm going to disable visual input," he blurts out. "I'm afraid my processors will overload and I'll shut down prematurely if you--"

"If I do this?" Hank purrs. He touches one fingertip, so gently Connor feels it only as a shadow of sensation and a flurry of red-bordered pop-up notifications, against the casing of his thirium pump regulator.

"Yes," Connor replies, his voice harsh and crackling with static as he shifts priorities in his internal systems. His vision cuts out and he immediately feels the strain on his processors lessen. "Yes, please."

There's more space here; it'll be a close fit, Connor knows, but there's enough room around Connor's thirium pump regulator, and in the space just behind it, for Hank to slip his entire hand in, if he wants. Apparently he wants it very much; he wastes no time easing his hand into the tight space.

 _Hank's hand has never felt as large as it does now_ , Connor thinks, when the entire thing wraps around the casing of his pump regulator. It's big enough to encircle it entirely, and if he inhales deeply, Connor can feel where his lungs brush against Hank's knuckles.

He thinks he might cry.

"It's not too much?" Hank asks. He gives the regulator a gentle squeeze, and Connor clutches the sheets at the dizzying wave of sensation that passes over him.

"It's..." Connor isn't sure what to say. He feels Hank's thumb rub across his cheek and leans into the touch. "It's beautiful," he says, though it's hardly an answer to Hank's question. Hank waits, both thumbs stroking gently in time with each other, and eventually Connor's able to say, "it's not too much."

"You'll tell me, if it is." Not a question, although Hank says it just as sweetly as he murmurs Connor's name into the dark, late at night. Another squeeze, just barely stronger than before, as Hank strokes down along the casing, and Connor realizes it's the same grip Hank uses while stroking himself, when he's in the mood to let Connor watch.

"Yes, I--ohhh, yes, I will," Connor moans, as Hank's fingers slide down the casing of the pump regulator and tease at the connection to the cable that connects it to the pump itself. "Hank, please, keep going." He wants to arch his back again, to push Hank's hand just where he wants it, but it's in such a sensitive area that he knows it isn't wise.

Hank knows what he wants by now, though.

He takes his hand from Connor's cheek, leaving a kiss in return as he withdraws, and gingerly eases a nest of thin cables aside as he slides his fingers the rest of the way along the cable and finally--Connor gives up, at this point, and disables all internal sensor warnings and error messages for the time being--slips them underneath his thirium pump, until it's cradled fully in his broad palm.

"Fuck, Connor," Hank breathes. "It's your heart."

"It is."

"This is where you wanted me." Hank carefully flexes his fingers around Connor's thirium pump, just a hint of pressure, but Connor still jolts at the feel of it. It's the most intimate thing he's ever experienced.

"Right here," he says. He doesn't say "I wish I could fold you up small and keep you here, curled safely inside my chest," but he thinks it. Imagines having Hank in him all the time, not as the faint impression of his fingerprints but the whole of him, close and warm and able to pull and press against his wiring as he--

Connor interrupts his own train of thought with a cry when Hank slips his free hand back into the mass of wiring he'd been touching before.

"Not too much now, is it?" Hank asks, and Connor's certain that if he could see, he'd recognize the cocky grin Hank gets when he knows he's touching Connor just how he wants it.

It _is_ too much, or close to it, but that's what Connor needs, what he so desperately wants. After so long away from Hank he needs to be overcome by Hank pushing into the core of him. The restless energy that had plagued him all week is a spring winding tighter and tighter, moments from an explosive release.

"You think I could stick my cock in here, next time?" Hank asks, his voice a low, rough growl. He thrusts three fingers into a narrow channel between two cables filled with the tiny fibers that make up his nervous system. "You'd probably like that."

Connor had been certain he was incapable of feeling any _more_ aroused, that his desire had hit its crest, but the thought of Hank rubbing his erect penis over his wiring, guiding it farther inside to where his fingers are relentlessly probing deeper, nudging against his thirium pump--it's too much for him.

Connor chokes out a sob that's almost a scream and feels his thirium pump stutter in Hank's hand as he comes, moments before his overtaxed system forces him into stasis.

His only regret is that he can't look into Hank's eyes as his awareness fades.

Connor surfaces back into consciousness slowly. He's aware, first, of Hank's hand on his chest, fingers framing the still-open panel but not venturing back inside. Then he registers the warmth of Hank's bulk pressed close to his back, the feel of his thick arm under his neck, and the soft flutter of his breath through the hair on the back of his head. Hank's breathing is slow and even, and Connor's glad it's the first thing he hears. His internal clock lets him know it's only been four minutes and fifty-two seconds since he was forced into stasis; some processes are still running sluggishly, he can tell, but everything vital is performing adequately, and a further rest when Hank sleeps tonight will take care of the rest.

"Hey, honey," Hank rumbles into Connor's hair, when he feels him stirring in his arms. He slides his hand down to rub small, soothing circles into Connor's hip. "You okay? That seemed pretty intense."

"It was," Connor agrees. He rests his hand over Hank's, lacing their fingers together.

Hank rubs his thumb over Connor's pinky finger, and Connor can't help but think about how that same thumb stroked and pressed against his sensitive wiring. He considers rolling over and guiding Hank's hand back inside, urging him deeper.

"Hell of a way to welcome you home," Hank chuckles, and Connor lets the thought slide to the back of his mind so he can focus on what he's saying. Hank drops his voice a little, lets it get a little rougher. "Welcome back, baby, I missed you, let me grope your heart a little."

Connor isn't sure if the comment's meant to show that Hank has some residual discomfort around what just happened, or not. "I know I was a little insistent," he says, cautiously. "I hope you didn't feel led or pressured into doing something that made you uncomfortable."

"Hell, no," Hank says, and the hand on his hip squeezes a little tighter. Connor's skeptical of this, in a way he's aware is uncharitable, and he doesn't respond; a moment later, Hank sighs. "Okay," he admits, "I was a little weirded out at first, I guess, because I didn't know I could do, you know, all that"--he gestures at Connor's chest--"without hurting you. Or that you even wanted it. But that, uh. It was good for you?"

"I assumed my reaction would have made that clear," Connor says, and he knows he's being a little difficult, that Hank needs reassurance after doing something that was surely alien to him, but he wants Hank to be able to trust Connor's reactions. To know that every time he'd asked Hank for more, he'd meant it.

"I guess it did." The arm under Connor's neck shifts as Hank runs his finger along the open edge of his chest, and Connor can't hold back a soft sigh. He's overstimulated and sensitive, but the desire to pull Hank back inside is still there. Now that he knows what it feels like, maybe it'll always be there.

"I know what you sound like when you're having a good time," Hank murmurs, brushing his lips against the shell of Connor's ear. "Sure sounds a lot like the noises you were making a few minutes ago when I had my hand buried in your chest."

"I'll make them again, if you aren't careful," Connor says, shifting in Hank's arms just enough that Hank's finger slips and brushes against the surface of his wiring.

"You know I always want to hear you sing for me," Hank says. He kisses the back of Connor's neck. "D'you think you could walk me through it, next time, so I know what I'm doing? I know you said I couldn't hurt you if I was careful, but I'd feel better if I understood your whole, you know." He gestures at Connor's open chest. "Your whole inside situation."

Warmth blooms in Connor's chest, and he knows if either of them were to peer inside it they'd see his thirium pump beating more quickly. Hank's been an attentive lover through every step of their sexual relationship, hungry to learn what brings Connor pleasure without being pushy, but somehow he hadn't expected introducing him to this particular desire to go so smoothly.

"I can do that," Connor says, leaning back into Hank's embrace. "Please don't actually put your penis in my chest cavity, though." He briefly pauses to run a number of calculations and preconstructions about the potential consequences, and amends his request. "At least, don't ejaculate inside of me. Not in that area."

"I wouldn't, I wouldn't," Hank says, half-laughing. "Well. Not unless you asked me to. It just seemed like something you'd like, if I said it."

"I did," Connor agrees. "You knew just what I needed." He sighs. "Thank you, Hank. Truly. I know we weren't apart for that long, and I don't want you to think me clingy, or too attached for you, but I want to be close to you, as much as I can, and being apart from you in an unfamiliar situation just made me want to be closer."

"My hand on your heart was pretty damn close, yeah."

Connor turns to face Hank, sliding the panel shut and reactivating his synthskin to cover the stark white of his chassis. "I wish I could do the same," he says, resting his hand over Hank's heart. He feels the steady pulse under his hand, muffled by bone and subcutaneous fat, and wishes he could bury himself as deeply in Hank as Hank had been buried in him.

"I know you do, honey," Hank says, seemingly unruffled by Connor's desire to touch his internal organs. "You know I'd let you, right? If our positions were reversed, or something. I think I'd want the same, from you. I'd want you to be that close."

The knowledge that Hank shares his desire for closeness, that he'd let Connor reach tenderly inside him if he could, is nearly as comforting as Connor thinks the act itself would be. It's enough, to know that Hank wants to keep him close. That he's willing to say so.

Connor doesn't think he'll ever get tired of hearing it. He wants to bask in the warmth of Hank's affection, but the feel of Hank's chest under his hand reminds him that he hasn't touched him nearly enough to make up for a week away. He's barely touched him at all.

"I've neglected you," he murmurs, letting the soft pressure of his hand over Hank's heart turn into a gentle kneading, a casual slide of his thumb over Hank's nipple. "Let me take care of you?"

"Oh?" Hank says. "Thought maybe you wore yourself out, already."

"Not yet." Connor's bending the truth a bit, of course; he can already tell he'll need to spend more time than usual in full stasis tonight in order to feel like everything's running optimally. But he's not tired, of course, and if he was, he'd still want to take his time with Hank.

"I was hoping you'd let me wear _you_ out, though," he murmurs in Hank's ear before nipping gently at his earlobe. "Shall we see whose stamina gives out first?"

"How about you come here and kiss me first, hotshot, and we'll see where things go," Hank grumbles, but he grins as he rests his hands on Connor's lower back and settles him in closer.

Connor can easily imagine how the rest of the evening will go: Hank will kiss him, leisurely and sweetly, until he's flushed and panting, his arousal a thick, insistent pressure against Connor's thigh. He'll let Connor pleasure him any way he likes, because he's always willing to indulge Connor even when it's his own pleasure in question. He'll murmur praise the whole time, enough that Connor will wonder if he might someday come from the sound of it alone, and he'll insist on cuddling, afterward.

It's so easy to picture it all that Connor has to pull himself back into the moment, into the feel of Hank's beard brushing his face and his lips on his neck. He disables his preconstruction software and anchors himself in the comfort of the present, in the warmth of Hank's body beneath him and the knowledge that his fingerprints are stamped all over his insides, a treasure tucked safely away beneath his skin.

"I'm home," Connor says against Hank's cheek, and he means here, in their house, but also in bed, and (perhaps most of all) here: in Hank's arms.


End file.
